


For What It's Worth

by 3am (low_fi)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blind Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Mercy76, Slow Burn, edit: mercy and jack are both depressy, everyone tbh - Freeform, everyone's p much going solo, implied past jack/gabe ok, literally slowest, set after overwatch disbanded, tags gettin updated, the regular deal, uhh mercy is depressy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 14:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8405173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/low_fi/pseuds/3am
Summary: Along with Overwatch, Angela Ziegler lost her place in the world and the people who had come closest to becoming her new family. She wasn't one to dwell on things, and though it was hard to let a friend as cherished as Jack Morrison go, she managed to move on. But he caught up with her.





	1. In Memoriam

1

Angela Ziegler was generally considered a rare voice of reason in a world gone mad. It was common knowledge she had a way of dealing with situations that usually settled them peacefully and without much of a fuss; when in doubt, many of the agents working for Overwatch during her time there would come to her for advice. She was more than happy to assist. Everything seemed to be going neatly, and even if there were a tensions here and there, she was convinced she had it under control; “Mercy” – the talented, hopeful hero in her early twenties, wise for her age, but still wide-eyed, marvelling at the unrealistic beauty of the organisation she had grown used to calling her family. Blinded, perhaps, she noticed too late the approaching downfall.

To be fair, they were all lost in the ideal. There was a curtain of blissful peace that fell even over the eyes of the older, more experienced agents, ones Mercy looked up to and admired. Even the shadowy, unapproachable Reyes, the war-scarred Amari both saw that glimmer of hope for a better world – embodied into an idealised supersoldier, the strike commander, the face of Overwatch. The golden boy. Jack Morrison.

The memories from the meetings Angela had attended with him grew foggy over the years. He was self-confident, maybe a little rash; someone had told her he was a farm boy, but that could have been little more than a mean rumour. She knew for sure the core reason behind his success was the trust he had in himself. He really did believe what he was saying, and his enthusiasm was contagious – as it is with such people – so he easily gained a following. He knew how to speak so that people would listen, but it was not a practiced ability, it was natural, believable. He convinced her, too - he was one of the few people Angela didn’t mind holding a gun. Even if, sometimes, when the lights went out and the curtain fell, he grew quiet.

One thing Angela didn’t realise back in the day, but understood now that she’d reached the age he’d been – Jack was not naïve anymore by the time he was made commander. He knew full well the consequences of each mission, he carried the burden with him, alone, and it slowly chewed at his once unwavering positivity. It was what eventually turned him on Reyes; the soldier Angela saw when she was a little girl, the young man on the posters, he would have never pointed the barrel of his gun at a friend. And certainly not a friend as dear to him as Gabriel Reyes was.

But it had been many, many years since then. She’d had time to think it over, make peace with the fact he was gone, say her goodbyes— even find herself a new place to work. And though it never felt the same, Angela wasn’t one to grow bitter. She had a single purpose, and she was fulfilling it, saving lives every day; and it was worth it. Overwatch, Jack, Reyes—they were nothing but photos and video logs, and memories in a cloud of warmth. Sentiment. Mercy had plenty of that.

Even sitting quietly in a standard issue military tent, with exhausted nurses and paramedics sleeping with coats under their heads and dust in their lungs, Angela was not discouraged. Her laptop rested against her crossed legs, she clicked through her private files in an effort to sate that sentiment somehow, satisfy the need for a familiar face. Obviously, she had little to none of the documents about past Overwatch activity, base locations, coordinates and operative details, but she had plenty of photos. She could allow herself this moment of weakness. With a sigh, she leaned her back against the pole supporting the western side of the tent, and stared at the dimmed screen.

She had always been a little disconnected. A little too married to her work. ‘Willing to give too much.’

\---

“Doctor? I’m Jack Morrison.”

“Angela Ziegler. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Angela took the hand he’d offered her. He’d spared no strength; that was one firm handshake. A strange man, with boy scout eyes, but a grip of steel.

“I know this isn’t exactly official.”, he pursed his lips with an apologetic nod, and put his hands on the kitchen counter. “Sorry. Just moved in. There’s hundreds of boxes to unpack. Reinhardt’s things are— all over the place.”

He laughed curtly, facing the ground. Angela, trying to hide her excitement (failing) rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet.

“It’s alright. At least I didn’t have to travel far.”, she smiled warmly, and watched as he briefly paused before opening his mouth again.

“Indeed. Welcome to our new headquarters, doctor.”, Morrison crossed his arms on his chest, expression returning to a polite seriousness. “The med bay’s going to be over there. For now. Uh. Looking forward to working with you.”

“Likewise—“, her voice died in her throat when she realised she had no clue how to address him. “C-commander.”

She’d heard he’d been in the military. With Reyes, too--- not very professional on her part to forget to check their rank, but it was too late for regrets now. Besides, he didn’t look offended. He glanced down into the drawer he’d been checking again, and pulled out a pair of scissors with satisfaction painted on his face. He began cutting one of the cardboard boxes from the kitchen floor open.

She’d caught them at a strange time, indeed. There he was – strike commander Morrison, in a white T-shirt and working jeans. She could hear accented swearing somewhere in the background; Reinhardt; and to the right, still not aware of a new member’s presence, was Tracer, snoring into her arms from where she was sitting by a half-done table. He must’ve noticed her glances, because the awkward look was back on his face.

“Not what you expected, right?”

“Not exactly what I expected, yes.”, she said as pleasantly as she could, and straightened out the jacket of her grey suit. “But I do like it. This is an opportunity to be part of something bigger than me. I’m more than happy to be here.”

Morrison nodded slowly, studying her face. He seemed intrigued.

\---

“Hey, Doc.”

Some years had passed. Some familiarity had been gained. The headquarters stood sure; glassed ceiling, open areas. The orange tint of the night sky at 3 am overhead.

“Hm? What are you doing awake, Jack?”, Angela leaned over the counter to see him slumped over the dining table, phone in hand. The blue glow of the screen lit up his face.

“I could ask you the same thing, you know.”, he muttered. “I’m just checking my email. You?”

Angela blinked, fighting off the stickiness of her eyelids.

“Well, I… I thought I’d do a little more work. Just a bit.”, she cocked her head to the side, clutching her elbow. “That muscle tissue I started developing is still faulty. I worry about Torbjörn’s prosthetic.”

“Worry about yourself for once, Angela. You look like you’ve got one foot in the grave.”

She bit her tongue before she recklessly pointed out she could say the same for him. She was more withdrawn; perhaps she should’ve spoken her mind. She couldn’t name anyone who looked out for Jack Morrison these days. His old friends had unrelenting faith in him; Reyes was drifting astray. Ana was a mystery.

And Angela—Angela worried.

She really should have said something. Asked him if he needed to talk. She suddenly felt like she wasn’t just reliving a memory; it was like she could open her mouth, change everything, be the strong one this time around—

“Jack…”

\---

“Ma’am? Ma’am, are you okay?”

Angela sprang to attention, chest rising and falling with every exasperated breath. She could feel sweat rolling down her spine – one of the nurses, a young man, was holding her by the shoulders.

“Are you alright, doctor Ziegler?”, he asked with concern, leaning in. She noticed a few other doctors watching as well, curious and filled with compassion. She immediately put on a calming smile, though she couldn’t say how convincing it was.

“I’m okay.”, she promised, removing the nurse’s hands. “I’m sorry to have caused you trouble.”

“You’re very pale, ma’am. Maybe you should take it easy for a bit.”, he suggested, and the others agreed at once, nodding. Angela swallowed. Did she really look that bad?

“No, no. It was just a dream. I’m ready to go.”

She sent the nurse away and began preparing her equipment for another day of work, trying to pretend she didn’t hear what they were saying outside of the tent. She kept telling herself they’d forget it soon; or maybe they wouldn’t figure out which ‘Jack’ she’d meant to begin with. She didn’t want to cause them sadness. Morrison was in his grave. No point digging him up.


	2. Out of Memoriam

The day began, as usual, as soon as the sun leaped into the sky and the camp filled with light. Angela left the tent with sticky eyelids and a bad headache, clutching onto her bag like her life depended on it. Routine guided her more than actual thought; she made her way over to the corporal, a bulky, short-haired woman who was was leaning over a dictionary. Holographic projections of the narrow canyon terrain lay forgotten to the far side of the table. Like veins, cracks spread in the baked desert ground, and they were hidden in one of the wider ones; north, a plane opened, dry and burned by the sun.

“Ah. Doctor”, she glanced up at Angela with a curt nod, snapping the book shut. “No aggression on the enemy’s part yet! Looks like another boring day approaches.”

Angela pulled off a gentle smile. She could almost hear disappointment her tone.

“This is a peaceful mission. There is no enemy. Just people in need of our help”, she corrected, holding her bag in front of her. The corporal rolled her eyes.

“For heaven’s sake, lady, you are deluded.”

She really, really wasn’t. Mercy inwardly asked herself for just a little more patience, and faced the ground to hide a sigh. It was difficult sometimes, when people made the mistake of taking her lightly. Thinking – ‘she hasn’t seen what the real world is like’. Mercy had seen it all. Horrors of war, people closest to her brutally killed; she’d seen everything, and yet.

“Corporal, I want to believe that violence is not always the answer.”

“Like I said, Doc. Deluded.”

She focused her thoughts, trying not to change her expression, but the corporal didn’t seem to care in the first place. She looked over the horizon with a stern hardness in her features; single-minded.

“I’d stake my career on it. Come what may. The same damn gang that did this, or the army, hell, even Talon—something’s gon’ hit us, Doctor. There’s no such thing as a peaceful mission.”

Angela didn’t know how to respond to that, so she simply nodded and left, headed for the tent closest to her. Most of the civilians that had gotten caught up last month’s fights between the Rashida Front and the Sana Front were not lethally injured, but they still needed patching up and sometimes, antibiotics. The more severe cases – the freedom fighters from Rashida’s Front that they’d taken in – were put in separate tents and hooked to IVs, and Angela usually got to them around noon. She secretly wished she were allowed to used her more advanced technology, like she’d been in Overwatch, but she knew they were keeping an eye on her. She needed to watch her step, even if it meant slower healing—because at least she was allowed to work. Angela couldn’t imagine a life away from that.

“I’ll be with you in a moment. Make sure Basima is getting oxygen”, she threw the words at another doctor as soon as she entered tent A-1, plopping her bag down on one of the plastic chairs and pushing it open. She then washed her hands and pulled on a pair of gloves.

“She’s doing good.”, the doctor she’d appointed gave a nod. “I was beginning to think we’d have to separate her, too, but it looks like she’s got guts.”

“Danke, Matthews. I had faith in her from the start”, Angela said, but still felt a wave of relief. “Hopefully her mother recovers just as quickly.”

“Erm, Doctor Ziegler…”, Matthews took a step forward. “About that. About Head Rashida.”

“What is it?”

“There have been concerns. From the soldiers. They say we shouldn’t be keeping a political figure like her in a poorly armed camp like this. Maybe we should at least move her out of A-1— get her a smaller tent.”, he said, lowering his voice until it was a whisper. Angela furrowed her brow.

“I won’t separate her from her daughter, Matthews. Besides, she’ll be far easier to reach if we move her away…”

“—Further from where the soldiers sleep, ma’am.”

“No.”, she cut him short, accent getting stronger. “And that’s final.”

Then they were both brought back to reality by the sound of Basima loudly choking. Angela let herself be thrown into the rush, her mind cleared, the soldiers’ prejudices forgotten. She put her heart into every movement, every quiet word exchanged with the young girl in the brief periods she was awake, trying to keep her comfortable. The shadow of a smile on her patient’s weathered face was enough of a reward.

Her instructions ignored, by that evening Rashida was moved to a tent positioned a little too far away from the rest, much to Angela’s dismay. She tried speaking with the corporal – only to be, once more, pushed back into her place. Normally, perhaps, she would’ve fought more fiercely, and maybe she was to blame – but by the time the sun set, she was so exhausted by the constant jumping from bed to bed and aiding crying children that she couldn’t find a source of energy anymore. She let Rashida be taken away and fell into her sleeping bag, too tired to open her eyes again once she’d closed them.

That is, of course, until the sound of explosions tore the night sky in half.

At first, surprisingly, it wasn’t as alarming. The mist surrounding Angela’s brain allowed her to ignore the first three hits, caught in a haze, but then another series filled the camp, and it was stronger. The ground quaked, her eardrums filled with pain. The people around her were shouting. Slowly, her sluggish mind managed to make out a chant. A word. Sana. The raiders had found them.

“Doctor Ziegler! Get to cover!”, a feminine scream right above her, right before Angela was pushed to the ground. The familiar military logo flashed somewhere to the left and one of the escort soldiers held onto Angela’s shoulders.

“Are you alright, Doctor? The supply tent’s been blown to bits!”

“I’m fine!”, she shouted back at him. “Get the patients to safety! I’ll be…”

With her hand already reaching to her thigh, in a practiced, calm instinct, Angela realised she didn’t have her blaster. She clenched her jaw. There was no time, she couldn’t look for the case that held it – and she told herself she wouldn’t pick up anything else. Instead, she stood up on a pair of wobbly feet and peered out of the tent. The soldier muttered something about taking her to safety.

Angela stared into the havoc outside. There were wounded; the raiders had spared no bullets. Basima lay motionless three metres away, under an unsteady pile of wrecked supply boxes, her robe barely visible against the sand – blue in the moon’s light. It didn’t seem like anyone had noticed her.

“Doctor! Wait!”, the soldier snapped, and was blatantly ignored as Mercy lunged forward to pull the girl out from underneath the boxes. She still had strength left; working in the field hadn’t exactly softened her.

“Hold on.”, Angela muttered. It was taking so impossibly long; the distance had been so much easier to cross before. Sweat gathered on her beck, her heart was pounding. “Just a moment.”

She fasted her grip and suddenly heard the whistle of a bullet overhead. Instinctively, she curled on herself, hunching her back to cover the child; but nothing followed. Must have been a stray. Another loud explosion, this time further away, was what finally calmed her. The fight was moving away from the camp. Somehow, their escort must have managed to push them back.

The tent fell closed once more, and Angela, Basima and the soldier were left in a strange, eerie sort of peace. Angela forced her will on him with a glare.

“Protect her.”

“Ma’am.”, he cleared his throat. His voice cracked lightly when he spoke. “I have to get you out of here.”

Angela softened.

“What’s your name?”, she asked quietly, crouching down to where he now knelt, the girl like a rag doll on his arms.

“It’s Jones, ma’am.”, he mumbled.

“Thank you, but…”, Angela finally spotted the right duffle bag, charred and in general disarray, but mostly intact. “I have to try and help them.”

Jones looked down, snorted, but without the bitter humour she’d anxiously expected. He shrugged.

“Yeah—I know.”

He wasn’t going to stop her. Angela stormed out of the tent with a med kit backpack and her trusty blaster in her hands, eyes carefully scanning her surroundings. It was shockingly quiet. The only sounds were muffled, like they were coming from a distance, and somewhere in between the shots, she heard something else. Shouting. And blasts from a very advanced, very illegal rifle.

Someone—because it was just one rifle—had gotten their hands on salvaged Overwatch tech. Angela swallowed the ball that had formed in her throat and ran between the tents, searching for the patients and soldiers – only to run directly into the heat of it.

“Ziegler!”, the corporal’s familiar growl burst in her ear, and her strong grip almost tore her arm off. “What in blazes are you doing here?! Get away! We’ve got a third party!”

“Third party?”, Angela looked at the people hugging the wall of their small crack of a canyon. Most were wounded in some way; the kids were all pressed together into the ruined fabric of a fallen tent. Two soldiers were tending to them awkwardly – their team of doctors was already busy. Angela returned her attention to the corporal. “Where are they? Did they take Rashida?”

“Yes”, the corporal glared at her. “They did take Rashida. ‘Round twenty of them—a well-rounded pack. We can’t take them down. When they kill that madman, we might just be done for.”

“What madman?”, Angela blinked, leaning a little closer in a surge of irritation. She was obviously not up to date.

“It’s just one guy, Doc! The third party!”, one of the nurses answered for the corporal, looking up from over her work. “With a really big gun.”

Angela stared at them like a frozen computer. The shallow look in her eyes must’ve startled them, because nobody said a thing when she cocked her blaster and turned to look at the fight. A dark silhouette, lit up only by the occasional round, was guiding the raiders into the narrow cracks in the now dark, purple rock. He was pulling them into a trap; a very obvious one, but the infuriated, steaming men and women were easily tricked. Angela could feel the bloodlust coming off from them; and they didn’t just want the mystery attacker, they wanted Rashida. Where the hell was Rashida?

Right. Bait.

The cold sand slipped from under her feet when she ran lightly towards the fight, ignoring the corporal’s swearing. Before, she wouldn’t have even attempted this. She knew full well she couldn’t stand her own in a fight for longer than a few minutes; that was what her team had been for, that was why they had had shields and tanks and long-distance support. Angela couldn’t count on any of that anymore, but her instincts had not changed.

The bodies on the ground at the narrow entrance of the crack he’d lured them into made her flinch. Some of them were breathing; some where even whining, conscious, but in pain so overwhelming they couldn’t get up. Angela considered knocking them out. Considered.

“So you want her? Come and get her.”

The low, rumbling voice filled the narrow way. Angela knelt by the opening and peeked inside, only to see a menacing red line in the otherwise impenetrable darkness. A visor.

Everything went smoothly, from what she could hear – punches, kicks, whines and grunts of pain. She waited, filling her lungs with the dry, cold air, laced with the burnt smell of explosives. Then, when it was finally quiet, she glanced over the edge.

“Who—are you?!”, she called, trying desperately to keep her voice from shaking. “How did you get that weapon? And what are you planning to do with Head Rashida?”

Silence. Deep, threatening silence, so deafening that she couldn’t help but fill it again. She pulled herself up and took a step into the darkness.

The red visor was there, numbly staring back at her.

“You’re holding my patient captive.”, she said when her eyes got used to the dim red glow and she saw he was not aiming anything at her. After a few more seconds, he raised his free hand and opened it. A plastic bubble of white light hovered over his fingers – then extended a small metal foot and settled on the wall, about fifteen centimetres from his head. Angela could now see the man was standing right where the crack widened into a cramped, but still more comfortable space, and Rashida lay on the ground behind him, rested against the rock. The path between the attacker and Angela was revealed to be holding five of the last raiders. They were all out.

Scolding herself for getting distracted, and returning her eyes to the man, Angela noticed he still hadn’t raised that rifle. His body language said nothing about him; he just stood there, like a statue, looking straight at her. She now also saw he was definitely not dressed for the occasion. Though the trousers and boots were somewhat practical, his jacket was—civilian, almost. The vibrant blue only made it stranger.

“Give her… give her back!”, Angela argued, furrowing her brow. Once again, no reply. She really hadn’t planned to do this… Well, to be fair, she hadn’t planned any of this. Warily, Angela aimed the blaster.

This finally caused him to stir from his thoughts. He straightened up; almost relaxed. He gestured slowly with his free hand.

“You’re not going to fire that.”

“Since I’m the one holding it, I think I’ll be the one making that decision.”, Angela said, narrowing her eyes, but halfway through her own menacing line she decided to replay his voice in her head. And again. And again. And again, as her stomach began to turn.

The man suddenly faltered; he lowered his head, stepped to the side.

“I just came here to take care of the Sana. Take your patient back, I don’t care— she could probably use some healing.”

Angela blinked.

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah.”

He perched his rifle on his shoulder, grabbed his little lamp and reached to the rock like he was about to climb it. Angela immediately lowered her blaster.

“Wait a moment!”, she cried out, taking a few steps towards him. “Wait—”

She could feel the glare through the visor. The familiar glare. Feeling like she was going insane, like this couldn’t be reality, she forced herself to risk it. He wasn’t hostile! She knew he wouldn’t shoot, he’d said so himself, she could risk it—

“Testing my patience.”

“—Jack.”

A shiver went through her chest. She clutched the blaster with sweaty hands, yearning, looking at him with everything painted on her face. The small twitch of his neck was the only assurance she got before he simply stepped onto the rock and scaled it, vanishing over the top with a small grunt of a hurting back. No surprise, really—enhancement program and everything, delayed aging aside, he was—he had to be sixty by now. It fit; but how on Earth had he survived? Where had he been? Angela’s mind was bursting with questions, but once again, her professional side took over soon enough.

She didn’t tell anyone what had happened. To be fair, not many people asked; they blamed her glassy, shallow eyes on shock, and her scattered, torn speech on exhaustion. Once more misjudged. Anyone who knew Angela Ziegler knew she was strong; more than strong enough to withstand any challenge her work threw at her. If someone who knew Angela Ziegler had seen her then, on the verge of tears, hands shaking—they would’ve known this was something that went far deeper.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you didn't think this would return, did you? lol

If you've ever woken up from a nightmare to find yourself drenched in cold sweat, you know it's not fun. You also know that after a few minutes, your brain starts functioning normally again and you come to the only rational conclusion: "i am an idiot to get so upset over something that was just a figment of my dumbass imagination."

That was similar to what Mercy was feeling. Whoever the rogue shooter had been, it wasn't Jack Morrison, because Jack Morrison was in his grave and not in that way where Mercy could still do her magic. He was gone. She'd come to accept it, she'd watched the others do the same - then why was her mind still trying to solve an impossible puzzle?

Angela sulked silently, her laptop shut off and unplugged just in case it decided to come to life and mock her with photos and recordings of a dead man. On the surface, she was a statue, the beautiful Lady Fortuna tending to the wounded without as much as a flinch at the sight of blood or vomit. Inside, Mercy was a sleep-deprived, coffee-chugging trainwreck going on forty and still immersed in nothing but her work, too used to seeing gore to know how to react at this point. It was a pretty drastic difference and while she did find it tiring to pretend, her head ached at the thought of all the other shit she had to do. Pretending was about as intimidating as a muffin compared the the prospect of getting shot in the face by an enemy sniper, and since that little brawl, snipers and guns were on her mind every day.

"Doctor Ziegler, there's an official call for you," a nurse shyly stepped forward to pass her a phone. It'd been a few days since the battle already - Mercy furrowed her brow in confusion.

"Who is it?"

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but they wouldn't tell me. Some high-ranking officer. For your ears only."

"Oh. Alright, then, thank you," Mercy put on #5 expression of polite surprise and gratitude, the same one she used for receiving gifts, and took the phone. To create at least an illusion of privacy, she walked out and around the back of the tent, where her only company was dust and sand. There she finally put the phone to her ear.

"Angela Ziegler."

"Good morning, Doctor." a male voice said on the other side. "Do you have a moment?"

Mercy laughed quietly.

"Do I ever?"

He didn't sound amused at that. He didn't really sound like anything, and that deaf silence was what put her off immediately. Mercy's smile vanished as she waited for his response.

"I work for the department of information control," he said finally, after he'd established dominance with his pause, "we're at a remote, safe location. I've been informed you acted out four days ago. According to a witness, you went against protocol and escaped from your escort..."

Angela coughed and cleared her throat.

"I'm sorry, what was it your rank again? Why are you calling about this?"

"That's classified, anyway--"

"With all due respect, I asked you something. I answer to general Yang. My involvement in this mission is a direct agreement between him and me, a product of "special circumstances"," Mercy frowned. "Whoever you might be, I'm afraid you do not have authority over me, and I want to speak to the general."

The army being what it was, Mercy had full confidence in her boss. Yang was an intelligent man with a modern and hands-on approach, and with a good idea of where Overwatch had gone wrong. Due to that, he also realised Mercy's involvement in the final breakdown had been involuntary. (or at least, he thought so. Angela had a few secrets, but they were all from after the bomb went off - one specifically regarding Gabriel Reyes. But she didn't need the military blaming the existence of the Reaper on her, too.)

"Well, Doctor Ziegler, you know your rights," the man sighed, "But if you'd let me finish-- it was mentioned a third party attacked the raiders, and you went after said party. Is that true?"

"Yes." Angela pursed her lips.

"He's been identified as a wanted vigilante. We need every scrap of info we can get. In short, we're bringing you in."

"That is out of the question!" Mercy exclaimed, appalled. "There are even more wounded than before! I won't leave my patients when they need me most!"

"There are other doctors, Ziegler," he snorted, "and without your magic cane, you're not worth any more than they are. Pack your bags."

Mercy gritted her teeth, unable to believe he'd just said that. She wanted to bite back, say she'd invented the damn magic cane herself, say she'd spent her life studying, given up friends and memories to lean over books, poured every ounce of her being into her work to get where she'd been - she wanted to ask him if he'd mastered necromancy recently, if he even had a PhD in something over than being a douchebag, but suddenly the words left her. Angela breathed out slowly, a tired groan leaving her mouth.

"Absolutely."

\---

Appointing a new head of medical staff had been a challenge, but Mercy had finally settled for a young and responsible guy, a local actually. Aside from all the regular qualifications, he also spoke the language, and she hoped that would help with communication at least a little. Angela could work miracles sometimes, but she couldn't learn a fifth language in the blink of an eye. Well, it was too late for ridiculous regrets now - her shit was packed, her patients were tucked in, and three people had already walked up to her to express their gratitude and shake her hand. She'd never really been a social person. Rather than accept the compliments and smiles (albeit with a perfect smiling mask on her face) she decided to go for a walk.

Her feet took her swiftly to the one place she didn't want to revisit - the hidden crack in the rock, where the strange man--with Jack's voice, Jack's rifle, her mind prodded-- had left her with Rashida. She silently looked over the details left here. She'd carried Rashida out herself, so nobody else saw or visited this place, or so she supposed; not that it mattered. Angela crouched down and looked at the ground. Footprints. Army boots, probably. In focused silence, she compared her own foot to the print, and noted that he'd been an 11. Maybe a 12.

Why the hell did this matter?

Well, it was likely helpful information to whoever wanted this guy to be stopped. But did Mercy want this guy to be stopped? She raised her eyebrows with an exasperated sigh. Whoever he was, the fact he didn't harm her patient, and his likeness to Jack were about to save his skin. She kicked the footprints and furiously scrubbed the ground with the toes of her shoe until they were gone completely. If, by any chance - even if it was just a tiny fraction of a possibility - that man really was Jack Morrison, Mercy would rather die than rat him out. She left it at that.

\---

It was three in the morning when her plane landed. 

Mercy looked through the news on her phone, dragging her suitcase behind her - dressed in a trenchcoat, her heels clicking on the airport floor. There'd been an assassination in King's Row. She stared numbly at the date and at Lena's name in the article, and she wondered how it'd ever come to this. It wasn't even the tragedy itself that struck her, but what led to it; how naive it was, at the end of the day, to think anyone could stop the violence. No, that had never been her job; her job was to patch people up after the violence was over, she fixed broken people and sent them back into the fray. Sometimes she brought them back from places she was too scared to enter herself. 

It was four in the morning, the break of dawn, her trenchcoat was dragging in the wind behind her as she waited for the car to come get her. Secret agent - that was not something she'd ever thought she'd become, but the optimistic days of Overwatch had always managed to get to her head. Gott. But the thought Tracer was, at least, still fighting for a righteous cause - that was somewhat comforting. She wasn't tied up in agreements. She had superpowers, for God's sake, she could zoom straight out of any trouble she was in. Angela looked at the puddle she was standing in, the sidewalk peeking through the muddy water - she saw her reflection, her tired, glassy eyes and nose red from the cold. Classic British weather. 

"Doctor Ziegler? Get in."

\---

Wind howled in the gaping holes of broken windows in the concrete skeleton which had once been an apartment building. Here and there, twisted, rusty metal rods poked out of the walls, clutching the cold air. A bundle of cables had been kicked under the wall, along with some equipment which all looked either broken or obsolete, or both. Soldier: 76 looked over them with disinterest and returned his attention to the energy drink in his hand. It was truly nasty, and made his heart beat weird sometimes, but at least it worked. Jesus, he was getting old. 

He downed what remained in the can and sat on a beaten-up blue mattress, pulling his legs up. He'd had better setups, yes, but this was an emergency. He'd done something stupid, slipped up. That was new for sure. Another thing that was new: he'd spoken to someone who knew him. Rather, who'd known him; the old him, the poster boy. The past he'd done his best to bury along with Gabe was coming back. Yes, that was Angela's speciality, wasn't it? Bringing shit back from where it shouldn't be able to come back from. She used to make it look so good-natured, so gentle - heroes never die! and there's a rush of energy, cells coming to life, there's laughter in the face of clinical death.

Soldier ran his hands over his face. The can rattled against the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love 2 hear your thoughts so thanks for the comments!  
> ps im sorry the chapters are short? oops


	4. Chapter 4

Vigilantes were a cool concept, there's no denying that. There were comic books about them, movies, video games; if he wears a mask, that's extra credit right there. But through his teenage years to his military career, Jack Morrison had never once thought he'd end up one of them. And especially not when he was going on sixty and getting older every morning.  
Supersoldier juices and chemicals were fine and they did keep him in shape, but 76 was tired on a fundamental level. His sleep schedule was a mess; he couldn't remember the last time he'd woken up rested. Every day was like punching through stone walls. It was all very depressing so most days, he did his best to search for distractions - life-or-death fights served that purpose well, for example - but sometimes, he was forced to withdraw. If one of those quiet periods collided with a couple bad days, he'd sleep through most of it with a motion sensor in his makeshift bedroom. 

He'd given himself away. Maybe her faint words had been a trick of the mind, maybe not - he had to assume the worst. So, what was he supposed to do now? It was clear Angela was working for the military, meaning her freedom and loyalty to any outdated Overwatch ideals were questionable at best. He didn't blame her; what else could she have done, but gone with the times? Gone off the radar and started secretly running around like some sort of medical superhero-- healing people in the dark of night? Medicine worked best when institutionalised, there was no undermining that. That being said, 76 was curious. Going back to the scene of the crime is a popular theme, now he understood why; there are answers there to questions which he hadn't thought to ask. If she already knew who he was (because he'd been an idiot, he reminded himself bitterly) there was a chance he could use it to his advantage. Especially given she was a military agent of sorts. 

76's endeavours in the middle east were largely spontaneous. There wasn't a set pattern to most of his battles; beating up thugs here, taking care of a predatory gang there. Most of his actual ideas ended up failing, if only because at the end of the day, he was just one guy. If he got hurt, he'd spend weeks nursing himself back to health; in Overwatch, it would've been one visit in the med bay. One smile for Angela so she'd put down her research and fix a cracked rib. 

The speaker on his table cracked and burped suddenly, spitting out a series of noises that could only mean something was up. He had a small station set up to weed out any transmissions in the area, a small "gift" from a contact in Dorado; 76 himself wasn't very good with tech, and try and hide it as he might, that woman in particular could tell immediately. She'd also gone to the trouble of setting the language of the audio prompts, for when he wasn't wearing his visor, to Spanish. Almost like she knew how much it would mess him up - though he spoke it fluently. 

76 pressed down a button on the display. 

"Kshh... Angela Ziegler."

He listened in on the conversation between Mercy and the guy on the other end, smiling faintly when he heard her argue. She wasn't keen on confrontations, but she didn't run from them, either. 76 himself had a bad habit of never getting diplomacy right. Sometimes he gave in too easily, sometimes he pressed too hard; a constant struggle between a kind heart and cold determination. He wondered if there was something wrong with him. 

"There are other doctors, Ziegler," the voice snorted suddenly, "and without your magic cane, you're not worth any more than they are. Pack your bags."

76 glanced up at the display, fists clenching. He knew where the headquarters were. It was time to go back undercover. 

\---

Ah, Europe; things finally felt a little more like home. No more scorching desert heat, no more harsh superiors and cold showers. Angela was finally able to relax, and take a closer look at her personal matters, rather than bandaging people up day and night. Her gear was still gone for the most part, though, and now was a better time than ever to start working on a small side project. She was valuable now, they had to accommodate her - not that she was planning on giving them anything on the vigilante. Anyone else who would've been in her situation would've only seen a bulky man with a red visor and an illegal weapon, not that uncommon in this day and age. It was dark. Angela hadn't seen much, really. 

"Doctor Ziegler, you'll be escorted to the office in three days. Your safe house has been equipped with a camera by the door. Please do not leave unless necessary."

"I'm sorry, is this a house arrest?" Angela asked with a hint of humour, opening her laptop and connecting it to the wi-fi. 

The assistant on the other end hesitated. 

"No."

"Why is general Yang delaying?" she frowned. "I thought this was important."

"General Yang is otherwise occupied." Angela almost heard the assistant's mouth clam up. "He'll explain the matter to you personally. I'm not allowed to tell you exactly, but something more serious than the vigilante has come up. For the time being, you're welcome to return to your research within reasonable limits."

"Ja, I won't start summoning the dead, I promise."

She would if she could, but she can't because they took her magic cane. Hhhh. It's not really a lie then. 

Bleep. The assistant had hung up, and Angela was left alone in her empty flat, a stunning view of glowing lights spreading out in the streets below. Despite her image, she was introverted, and genuinely preferred this; just her, her laptop, and her work. It didn't especially bother her the general wasn't calling her to his office, either - the longer they linger and withdraw their attention from the vigilante, the less evidence will remain once they get down to it. Mercy _knew_ the chances for it being Jack were narrow. Still, she let the idea consume her. 

Her laptop suddenly seemed very distant, and she felt her eyes glaze over. Work floated out the window. 

Angela got up. She had to leave, right now, right this second - assume control. She pulled her coat on, careless how messy she looked, burst out the door and locked it behind her - it was dark outside, she let the night and the chattering people envelop her like a thick fog. She could feel her feet detaching from the ground. Where were her wings kept, now? She wanted-- 

It was snowing. She pulled her trench coat tighter around her and took a turn, walking with her nose buried beneath her collar. People passed her by. Her friends were all gone; she tried to recall the last time she'd spoken to someone she trusted. Days, weeks, months of bodyguards, army officials, doctors who kept their distance out of respect alone - it'd been a full year. Her dear friend, the only person on the planet who still sent _hand-written letters_ \- and in doing so, had managed to get pass multiple levels of security surrounding her - Genji. She wanted to talk to a friend. 

She was just about to walk through a low-roofed passage when she heard rapid footsteps. 

"OI DOC!" 

Mercy stopped in her tracks. 

"What'cha doin' in King's Row, Doc? Haven't seen you in ages!" chirped a blue flash and Angela was suddenly facing Tracer, dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, her chronal accelerator awkwardly bending the fabric. "Wow, you look terrible!" 

"Lena," Mercy pretended not to hear the last part, "it really has been ages, hasn't it?" 

Wow, what were the chances? 

"Really, what are you doin' here? I thought you were, uh, somewhere in the Middle East?" Lena pushed her hands in her pockets and cocked her head to the side. "You have to come for dinner! You've met Emily, right? My girlfriend?" 

"We met at a party once," Mercy smiled, and immediately blanched. "Before, you see... before. After that, I'm afraid there weren't many opportunities." 

"Yeah," Tracer looked to the side, but she didn't seem to wither the same way Mercy did; there was something like acceptance on her face, as if she was remembering a fond memory. "Well, you have to come, okay?" 

"I appreciate it, but I'm actually..." Mercy furrowed her brow. English always got all knotted up when she was stressed. "I'm still under supervision, so to speak." 

"Ooooh." Tracer gasped. "They're still mad 'bout that?" 

"I'm afraid so." 

"Doc, but come on, you didn't do anything. You can't be treated like a suspect just 'cause you were in the rubble..." Tracer's voice almost cracked, but didn't. She paused instead. "It could've been any one of us." 

Well, Lena, Mercy thought in the back of her head, I am the only one capable of resurrection, you know. It's natural they're wary, even if they have no idea what I really did. 

"It's not right," Tracer continued after a moment. "And you're coming to dinner tomorrow at six, okay? Em's a great cook. And don't let them get the better of you." 

Angela nodded. 

"I'll see what I can do. And, Lena," she placed a hand on the girl's shoulder. "I heard what happened. You went up against Amelie, didn't you?" 

Tracer's smile vanished completely. 

"Yeah--" 

"I have to ask you." Mercy lowered her voice. "Do you think they will strike in London again?" 

Tracer rolled her shoulders. 

"I hope not. I'll tell you what I know tomorrow, though, okay? This isn't the best place." she smiled, trying to reassure her. "It was nice seeing you, Doc. Don't be late!" 

Mercy blinked and the girl was gone, speeding through the streets. She only now noticed Lena was carrying two bags of groceries. Tracer had, somehow, managed to go on with her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the kind words and kudos. i'm not much of a writer, and when i do write fanfics it's usually out of necessity (there's barely any content for this pairing!) so thank you for liking it. i really appreciate it.  
> (there will be more jack soon. there's a deeper sense to all this. i think.)


	5. Chapter 5

The line between luck and god's obscene laughter was growing thin. 

Angela dug through her memories, fiddling with an old pen with the logo of some hospital she'd visited for an Overwatch PR show years before. She vaguely remembered being young, naive and hopelessly in love with the whole mess that was Overwatch and its new headquarters; boxes everywhere, hundreds and hundreds of paper instructions in Swedish, warm cups of coffee strong enough to resurrect a bitch. She never remembered it the way the public did, it was too homely - she figured the image Overwatch had had really had been just a fiction of proper public image management, pin that one on Jack. If he had ever started out simple-minded, he'd quickly grown out of his farmboy shoes. 

-

And not just Jack, admittedly. Whenever Overwatch messed up, there was one secret weapon that could be pushed into the thick of press conference hell. That weapon was Tracer. Nobody, nobody on the planet (and the moon) could get away with badmouthing Tracer - not just because she could throw a punch, but because the public loved her. Children dressed up as her. The amount of PowerPoint garbage entitled "my idol" with her face plastered on the first slide was overwhelming to the point of legal image issues, which Lena never addressed because why would she-- she was the poster girl, the only face of Overwatch that could do no wrong. If you want to manipulate the people, do it through the children, and if you want to manipulate the children, give them a hero to look up to. Angela didn't, obviously, want to say that it had been intended. But she knew Jack and she knew the world was not black and white--and that sometimes, decisions had to be made in the upper echelon that nobody wanted to own up to. 

Not to say the love Tracer received from the public was not deserved. She had all the charisma and charm of a forest pixie, a long list of heroic feats and one could not stay mad at her for longer than an hour. Which had actually happened, a couple times, with Mercy and her--but such is the nature of friendships which endure. 

Emily and Lena lived in a cutely decorated, but practical flat with an open kitchen that blended into the living room, and a dining room squished somewhere in between. Angela was eating some sort of spicy food which tasted exotic, but then again she'd lived on canned beans and ramen for god knows how long and she'd probably call spaghetti exotic given the opportunity. 

"She's a great cook, right?" Tracer muttered with her mouth still chewing something, albeit discreetly. "I told ya."

"Lena..." Emily awkwardly smiled at Angela, fiddling hands betraying stress. Mercy blinked in surprise. 

"Oh, it's delicious, I'm so sorry. Wie unhöflich, ah--" she laughed quietly. "It's been so long since I've had a proper meal. Thank you."

"Really?" Emily's eyes grew wide, though Angela wasn't sure which statement she was referring to. Lena chimed in to help. 

"The doc was off in a war zone less than a week ago, babe."

"That's..." 

"It's really not as bad as it sounds." Angela lied through her teeth with a pristine smile, exclusively for politeness' sake. Her voice was gentle when she continued. "Things have not been perfect since Overwatch disbanded, but it was shut down for a reason and I don't intend to complain."

Tracer sighed and began gathering their empty plates. 

"I had a feelin' we were getting down to the nitty-gritty stuff. Em?"

Emily made a face. 

"Wooah, I'll get the wine."

"Thing is," Tracer said from over by the kitchen counter, where she'd placed the bowl and plates. Emily scurried off to some other room, flailing. "Doc, I have to be honest with ya. I'm not totally out of the loop, okay-- but I had no idea the scale of what Talon's doing. It's insane. When it happened, I..." she brushed a hand through her hair. "For a while, I couldn't process it. Like I couldn't get it through my head. I kept-- thinking that it was a trick, or something, almost like when Jack and Gabriel died. Yeah, actually, it felt exactly like that."

Mercy felt the iron grip of guilt closing on her throat, but said nothing. 

"Angie." Lena crossed her arms on her chest. "I think that-- their influence, it just doesn't match what I thought I knew. It's a mess, innit."

"What are you saying?" Mercy inspected carefully. 

"I think Widowmaker isn't the only member of Talon with ties to Overwatch," Tracer said, furrowing her brow. "And I think that sooner or later, someone has to push the button. Pull us back together."

Oh, no. Angela pursed her lips. The Reaper is Gabriel Reyes-- it's not so hard to say, damn it, it's just a few words. But to admit she knew was to admit it was her fault, her creation. Tracer had to be kept in the dark.

"Have we not done enough harm?" Mercy faced the floor. "Lena, maybe you are not wrong. But it can't be us. Somebody else, but not us."

We've got too much blood on our hands. 

"Why?" the girl argued, stepping forward. "What happened that was so evil, Angie? Where did we go wrong? Tell me, I want to know. I want to understand why Gabriel did all those things and why the headquarters got blown to shit, and why Talon has access to things that should have been buried along with Overwatch-- don't you want answers? Don't you want to find whoever was responsible-- Talon, might I suggest, is a start-- and bring them to justice?"

Angela's pulse was slamming a rhythm into the palms of her hands. She could feel her arms disconnecting, becoming numb--she furiously fought to stay present. 

"Lena," she said softly. "You haven't moved on."

"No, I have." Tracer seemed to calm down. "But that doesn't change the fact I want justice. For Gabriel, and for Jack, and for everybody else. Whatever killed them is still out there. I didn't move past knowing right from wrong, Doc."

Angela blanched. Had she?

"Hey, I've got the wine." 

Emily triumphantly raised the bottle into the air. Tracer smiled, but she looked tired all of a sudden. She turned to Mercy and walked closer to place a hand on her shoulder. 

"But I've spat enough self-righteous accusations for one evening, right. With little fact to support it, too." Lena laughed, pointing with her elbow to a small map of London on the wall with some red dots here and there, but kept in an air of complete sanity. Next to it, Angela noticed some neatly arranged headlines and articles, one specifically highlighting the name J. MCCREE and no photo. "It's your turn, Doc."

They sat together on the sofa. 

"Well. I've got a certain vigilante in my sights," Mercy said matter-of-factly, looking away. No use giving her hope. "I-I'm sure you've heard. He works alone and has some sort of vision enhancement, like a visor."

"Like Cyclops?" Emily tilted her head to the side. "From the X-Men?"

Tracer snorted and elbowed her, too gently for it to make sense. 

Angela blinked in surprise. 

"Yes, like that. That and he's got access to Overwatch weaponry. Things that should've been under military protection."

"I don't know if it's the guy you mean, but the description checks out..." Tracer got up and promptly returned with her laptop. She showed Angela a grainy photo of the man who was, unmistakably, the vigilante from the camp - but he was in a city, as the photo had a timestamp and location, Dorado. Mercy raised her eyebrows in surprise. 

"That was a lot faster than I anticipated!"

"Doc, this guy is a legend." Tracer gasped. "Though I didn't know his tech was Overwatch, no-one can get a clear pic of him, and it's not like just anyone has a point of reference... anyway. How do you know?"

Angela cleared her throat. 

"I... ran into him. I mean that we bumped into each other. Not literally, I..." she suddenly couldn't remember one good phrase in English, and when she did, the meaning seemed to escape her. She desperately searched for words. "He was by my camp. I saw him close up. I became intrigued."

"Holy shit!" Tracer's mouth popped open. "So what else? I mean, give me anything."

"Uhh... let me think." Mercy puckered her lips. "He had a number, seventy six, on his jacket. That's the only other thing I saw."

"Seventy-six..." Tracer mumbled, writing it down in her digital notepad. She placed the laptop on the table and picked up her wine glass. "I'll see what I can find, Doc... but to be honest witcha, you just gave me more than I had to begin with."

And she burst out laughing, completely oblivious. Mercy laughed with her. 

-

Vaguely hazy but filled with happiness after an evening of what bordered on being genuine, Angela unlocked her apartment door and tumbled in, dropping her bag on the floor. She giggled to herself when she almost tripped over her own high-heeled shoe; one glass, really, just one. In a sudden rush of guilt, she remembered her own nagging back in America when one infamous Jesse Mccree and her were working out of the same base. If he could see her now. She ached for a cigarette all of a sudden. 

She shuffled out of her coat and let that drop to the floor, too, leaving her in her elegant but somewhat wrinkled outfit. How adequate. It took her another few seconds to start noticing that something was off. 

The camera. There was some sort of device sitting on top of the camera by the door. Angela's thoughts immediately sharpened and she looked around, searching for any other signs of somebody else's presence. The next one dawned on her immediately. The goddamn light in the goddamn living room was on. Slowly, Mercy made her way along the corridor, leaving the front door unlocked. The floor creaked under her toes and a quiet, but intense sound followed - as if someone had made a rapid movement in total silence. 

Mercy pressed her back to the wall. 

More movement, squeaking of leather. 

She decided she'd had enough of playing cat and mouse. With one quick, confident move, Mercy pushed her head out from behind cover and looked into the living room - where she saw something completely bizarre. 

The room was dominated by a dark figure sitting in the revolving chair by her desk, blood seeping from several wounds across his arm and chest, and spilling into a round puddle on the floor. The man's legs were sprawled out, like he'd fallen into this position and hadn't moved since - one of his hands was clutching a handgun, while the other was closed on his face. Mercy thought she saw a red glow flicking on and off between his fingers. In the next second, it was gone completely with a sizzling noise. The man's head moved, slowly. His fingers were slipping off his mask. 

"How did--" Mercy didn't finish. The gun was already pointed at her. 

The man was panting. 

"Who are you?" he asked in a raspy voice. 

Angela blinked, and her features slowly twisted into a stern expression. She could feel her temples aching. 

"Who do you think?"

After another second of tense silence, he lowered the weapon. It fell out of his grip and hit the floor with a dull thud. 76 covered the remains of his visor with his hand again, like a scared child who doesn't want to be seen crying - but his voice was calm when he spoke. 

"Doc, I have a lot of explaining to do, I know that."

Mercy realised she'd been holding her breath. It came out shaky. Her arms, numb again. Slowly, carefully, she walked towards him. 

"Not as much as me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry its so short. i know i've been gone for twenty years, and i didn't proofread this either because im tired. so, so tired. thank you so so much for the feedback and kudos. i should also probably say that with the current state of overwatch canon, im kinda.................loosely stringing together bits i like but mostly letting my imagination fill in the gaps, because thats just how i roll. okay. see ya.


	6. Chapter 6

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Angela walked back from the door she'd just closed to the man bleeding all over her revolving chair, and rolled up her sleeves in a gesture so familiar it would be comforting - if 76 could see it. She gently placed her hands on his mask, only to move them back when he flinched - she waited a second. He obediently moved his face back into position. Still fiddling with the locks, she flipped on a small lamp to cast pale white light on the shattered mechanisms. 

"Explain first, apologise later." Mercy said, furrowing her brow. She lightly pressed down on both sides of his jaw and the mask popped off its hinges, along with the broken red visor. She gently placed the pathetic scraps of metal and glass on the desk and returned her attention to his face. He was silent.

He had aged, mercilessly. Supersoldier pills could only do so much; his hair and stubble were almost completely white, wrinkles had carved into the once soft skin around his mouth and eyes - same as what she'd started seeing in the mirror. They were both memories, echoes. She recognised the scar across his face - remembered how she watched the blow being dealt, even - but what struck her most were his eyes; still blue, but somehow lifeless, empty. As if a mist had come over them, they couldn't match the bright, vivid blue of what she remembered. He looked straight through her and into the distance. She knew that gaze.

"You're... blind?" she asked and immediately, her jaw tightened. She had to keep it together. 

"Not completely," he replied, almost defensively. Then his shoulders loosened again and he leaned back. "Doesn't matter. I didn't come here so you'd feel sorry for me, Doc. You ask me to explain, but... I don't know where to start."

"Well, that's unlike you. You were the one who always said to start from the beginning." Mercy pulled open a drawer and produced a first aid kit, which she skillfully opened with all the confidence of someone who could do it in their sleep. Then she tapped his jacket. 76 took it off, revealing a blood-soaked T-shirt which might've been white once. Mercy tapped it as well, but he struggled to pull it off over his head - his left arm bled heavily when he moved it. Angela calmly helped him and let the T-shirt fell to the floor with a wet splat. Her eyes travelled to the gashes. "Ouch."

"Ouch." he agreed with a nod, turning his face away. 

"So, where does it begin, Jack?" in a few quick minutes, Angela washed her hands in the kitchen, pulled on a pair of green rubber gloves and disinfected everything, including 76's wounds. He didn't even twitch. Some would take that as a sign of strength, but not her. Angela bit down on the inside of her cheek. 

"Can't..." he clenched his fists, muscles appeared under his skin. "Can't you just ask me why I'm here?"

"But I know why you're here. To get patched up, as you always have." Angela shook her head and dug the needle into his skin again. This time, his features stiffened. 

"No. At least, it wasn't part of the plan." he slowly pulled a hand over his face. "You saw me. In the canyon. I had to know what your pseudo military had on me. I tried to break in, it didn't turn out so good."

Mercy stopped stitching. 

"You think I'd tell them anything? Jack, you must not know me at all."

"It's been a very long time, Angela."

She got back to work, then promptly tied the thread. It would fall out on its own... just in case he wasn't planning on staying. 

"Then I saw the camera. Yours is broadcasting a loop right now, but I don't know how long it'll last." 76 went on, staring into nothingness. Mercy was unsettled. Eye contact was something he'd always used as a powerful tool, but now it'd been taken from him, and it was as if a part of his personality was missing. "I understand you're not on great terms with Yang."

"You just carry around tech like that?"

"I have a good supplier. It's where I got your address too. Now answer me, Doc."

"No, I am not on good terms with him." she pulled up a chair and got to work on the slash on his chest, sitting close enough that her knees were between his. "But I didn't have a choice when he presented me with a deal. It was either my freedom or my work. I can do more good when I'm working than when I am free."

76 flinched, causing blood to trickle out from beneath the needle. His Adam's apple moved up and down. 

"You were always too caught up in your research."

"I know my purpose, Jack. I choose the path which allows me to best fulfil it." 

He faced the floor again. Mercy gently tilted his chin back up with her free hand, the sharp, scratchy hairs hurting her skin. 

"You want to know who I ran into when I tried to break into your army's headquarters?" he asked suddenly. Mercy looked at his wounds again, feigning deep thought. 

"Something with claws. Perhaps a large cat?"

"The Reaper."

Angela rapidly sucked air into her lungs, staring at him with her lips still forming an "O". Uh-oh. 

"The Reaper? You're saying Talon is just as interested in you as Yang?"

"That or something else, but it's definitely information which Yang has. The Reaper doesn't do anything on a hunch." 76 sneered. "That much I know. I was hoping you'd help me with piecing together the rest."

He brushed a hand through his hair and over his nape, closing his eyes. Angela felt a weight descending onto her shoulders, like the feeling of looking down when standing on the edge of a cliff. Her stomach tightened. 

"Am I the only one who knows you're alive?"

76 shook his head. 

"Ana. Can't hide from Ana Amari, no matter how hard you try."

"Why... did you try?" Mercy slowly relaxed into a more comfortable position, her elbows on her knees wide apart. 

He didn't answer for a long moment. Just when he looked like he was about to say something, Angela's phone exploded with song. She got to her feet, removed her gloves and picked up. 

"Hello?"

76 watched the vague, shimmering outline of her silhouette turning and twisting and melting into the other shadows in the room. He could tell she was pacing by the regular rhythm of her feet on the cheap floor of faux wood. 

"Oh, no, no--I am still at Lena's, like we agreed. I am not going home yet, sir!" she said with mock anger and burst out laughing so wholeheartedly that for a moment, 76 forgot she was acting. "You will see me get back, remember? Yes, alright. Yes. I understand. Yes. Goodbye."

Bleep. Angela tossed the phone on the sofa and walked back to her chair with a deep sigh. 

"You're a good liar." 76 said in a quiet, but rumbling voice. 

"Stop it. Stop talking like we're strangers, Jack." Mercy's smile vanished. "Off to bed, right now. You need rest. I'll go get you some clothes and a toothbrush."

He blinked, pushing the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other - a nervous habit. 

"Doc, you're serious?"

"You came here without knowing I'd put you up?" Mercy furrowed her brow. "Of course I'm serious."

"I wasn't... I just didn't know where else to go."

Her irritation evaporated. He was almost pathetic, so weak, so tired. After a moment's hesitation, Mercy firmly grabbed his shoulder.

"We have a lot of things to sort out." she said quietly, somewhat for her own sake. "Until then, I'll keep you safe. You are my friend. Times may have changed, but that has not."

76 stood up, straining. In a series of movements she knew too well, she put one arm around his waist, then made sure he was holding onto her, and slowly walked him over to the bedroom. He was asleep before he even hit the mattress. Mercy sighed to herself, covered him with a blanket - which happened to be a personal belonging, pink and covered in hearts - and calmly, quietly closed the door, her features serene. Then she wrapped her arms around herself and slid down to the floor, feeling two hot tears running down her cheeks. 

She wasn't sure what she was feeling; a bizarre mixture of old, aged pain, some happiness, a lake's worth of cold, brisk relief. 

Then she put a hand over her mouth and breathed out. As expected, she was hit by the distinct smell of alcohol. Damn it. Jack was bound to come to all the wrong conclusions once he woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> folks, every time i click "add chapter", a little fragment of me dies. it's so short!!!! sorry. also, i'm sick and my arms turn to lead when i try to draw, so in case you're wondering why this exists... thats why. thank you so much for the kudos and kind words, they do wonders for my motivation and i am very grateful.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gabe?

Securing an alibi with Lena, using one of the burner phones Mercy had found in 76's belt, had been easier than taking candy from a baby. Not that lying to Mercy's hardened military man of a boss was anywhere near as morally wrong as taking candy from a baby, but the woman had a heart of gold and Mercy had managed to - without revealing anything of value - talk her into assuring anyone who asked that yes, Angela Ziegler was with her and her girlfriend, and yes, their catching-up dinner had turned into a three-woman party which could last hours. Not too hard to believe, honestly, when it came to old friends.

Or so he'd been told. 

Honestly, with the shift in her voice when Mercy switched from talking to 76 to talking to her boss on the phone, it was hard to believe anything she said. But she was still Angela, and he was still - somewhere deep down - Jack Morrison, and they'd been close friends once upon a time. 76 took a large step back from the knot of anxiety and distrust in his stomach, and methodically beat his broken brain into submission. He knew the gut feeling wasn't his. It sure felt like Mercy was about to turn on him - reveal some sort of plot, betray him, followed by whatever other intrusive images his fear and pain had cooked up-- but he knew better. Everything he was feeling was a product of what had happened to him, not his instincts talking. He had to think rationally. 

"And why are you not asleep yet?" 

He hadn't noticed the door open - close to impossible - but Angela's flowing and shivering dark silhouette against the light in the living room spoke for itself. He blinked a few times, like that would help his damaged eyes. It obviously didn't. 

She came closer, and he felt her weight on the mattress as she sat down next to him. He pursed his lips. 

"Can't."

"Well, I think I have an idea," her voice was soft, "regarding what to do with you. I reported in that I won't be in my apartment until six, giving us..." 

A pause. Presumably, she was looking at her watch. 

"Ah. Five hours. Scheiße, I really thought we'd have more time. I was hoping you'd get some sleep while I worked this out, but laying down will have to do. I'm sorry," her voice grew tired, and he felt something touch his forehead. 

He tensed, flinching away. Apparently realising her mistake, Mercy lightly tried again, slower and more gently, and he realised she was just checking his temperature with the palm of her hand. He breathed out, embarrassed. 

"What was that idea?" he asked, turning his face away from where her voice was coming from. 

"Stealing a car and leaving London," she replied almost cheerfully, and then sighed. He thought he heard her bury her face in her hands, and her voice was muffled when she continued, "you can't stay here under my care - one surprise visit from a security officer of Yang's, and we are toast. And I can't as much as sneeze without reporting it in... so I can't visit you anywhere, either, and..."

"Doc--"

"Shush now, I'm thinking."

"Angela."

76 pushed himself up on his elbows, feeling chills run up his wounded arm. From the angry hiss Mercy let out, he deducted blood had gone through the bandages. She muttered something about her fine stitching, but using her first name was always a good way of getting her attention, and she stayed quiet while 76 gathered his thoughts. He slowly pulled a knee up to cover his stomach at least partially, so he wouldn't feel so vulnerable. 

"Angela," he started again, making a conscious effort to face her, or rather her voice, "in a couple hours, you take the batteries out of the camera, you replace them with used ones, I've got a few. I pack my shit and go. After an hour, you call your boss and tell him you think the camera's busted. Everything goes back to normal."

There was a menacingly long pause.

"Jack, nothing about this is 'normal'," she gasped finally, and for the first time, there was genuine desperation in her voice. "There is a goddamn camera in my hallway. You're on the run! Look at us!"

He physically felt her freeze when she realised her choice of words. They sat in silence for what felt like eternity, his heart his pounding; there should have been thoughts rushing through his mind, but there were none, just a pressing, expanding numb emptiness which seemed to be pushing on his skull from the inside. He slowly, carefully pulled the bits back together. 

"You said that you go where you are needed. Even if it means giving up your freedom," he said slowly, blinking. His eyelids burned with fatigue. "I've asked too much of you already. You can't throw everything you've worked for away for a ghost."

That seemed to make her snap out of her moment of weakness. She pulled in a long, slightly shaky breath, then exhaled - steadily. 

"It seems I... went back a few years, there," she laughed, but it was a facade, like a pane of safety glass already shattered, yet holding in place. "I don't know what to do, Jack. I just don't know. I used to have so many ideas for the future, but they're gone now, as if there's a mist over them... As if all my plans are funny somehow, pointless. But just for a moment there, I had such a clear view of it. Like it was-- within arm's reach."

"I know the feeling," he said into the silence that had fallen, "that there isn't a future for me, I mean."

She awkwardly shifted where she sat.

"I've never told anyone about it," he heard her fumble with something. 

76 sighed.

"Me neither."

"Well," Mercy said, her tone mimicking her usual I'm-a-medical-professional-listen-to-me poise, "I suppose we both miss having structure, having stations, some sort of order to things. But, nonetheless, if you are to leave tomorrow then you have to rest. Doctor's orders."

She smoothed out the blanket as she stood up to leave, but he found her hand before it returned to her side. 

"Hey," he said, almost sharply, and sheepishly changed his tone when he went on, "thank you."

He wasn't exactly sure why he was holding her hand for this, but the wave of terror from before had come crushing down onto him again, and he couldn't let go in fear of being swallowed by it. Mercy slowly sat down again, tracing his knuckles with her thumb.

"It's okay," she said, noticeably straining to sound optimistic. "Come what may, Jack, you can always trust me."

76 gulped.

"We should have reunited in better circumstances."

"Yes. How ironic it was the Reaper that sent you to my door."

He tilted his head, surprised. He couldn't quite make sense of that, and the strange way she'd said the words only added to his confusion. 

"Why is it ironic?" 

"No... I meant that an enemy brought us together," she backpedalled, and stood up, letting go of his hand. "Now you really should sleep. I'll be on the sofa if you need anything."

She was gone before he had time to understand what she'd said, but somehow the conversation had made sleep a very plausible option. He drifted off, absently wondering why the Reaper hadn't just shot him dead... instead of scratching him up like an angry kitten.

\---

What was the Reaper doing in this shady bullshit-military HQ, anyway? 

He appeared practically out of nowhere, materialising in the shadows. Suddenly, 76 was falling forward, instincts kicking in before anything else - he turned as he fell, landing on one hand while the other pulled the trigger. Reaper dodged effortlessly and dove after him, shotguns blaring. 

76 had gone up against him before, but never one-on-one, and it was deeply unsettling. He hadn't fought him enough times for this to be so familiar. He scrambled to his feet and jumped for cover, which happened to be behind one of the rows of gigantic black boxes with blinking lights and cables coming out of them - 76 was really no good with technology, but this was what he was here for - the data was stored here, that much a monkey could put together. He furrowed his brow. Poor choice of words on his part. 

Metal clicked on the floor and 76 waited, holding his breath. Why wasn't he shooting? 

The Reaper walked around the corner and they stood face to face, the cold white bone of his mask cutting into the enveloping darkness around him. 76's visor sharpened and brightened the image to make up for the dim lighting. 

They stared each other down for a couple long seconds. 76 snapped out of it first, raising his rifle to shoot - but then, the Reaper suddenly tilted his head, turning his face away. Almost like he was listening to something. 

Then, he dropped his shotguns. They hit the floor with a dull thud, which rang in the silence. 

"Giving up already?" 76 raised an eyebrow. 

He thought he heard Reaper chuckle. 

"You're just not worth the bullets."

The mass of dark smoke lunged forward, reforming just in time for a clawed fist to meet directly with 76's face. He dodged the next punch, and slammed Reaper in the side of the head with his rifle; it was promptly torn from his grip and thrown to the side, like the hit had done nothing. 76 felt claws digging into his arm and his shoulder blades met painfully with the ground. 

"Get up."

76 waited for his visor to readjust, pulling himself back to his feet, for the second time in this fight. He raised his fists and glared at the shadow, feeling the fresh wounds on his arm burn. Reaper slashed at him; got his chest, but not too deep. Nothing to worry about. 76 fought to keep his focus. The world was getting hazy. 

"What are you doing here?" he snapped, trying to buy time.

Reaper cracked his neck. 

"Wanted a rematch," he replied, but it almost came out like a question. 

They clashed again and this time, 76 managed to land a punch directly on the nose of Reaper's mask, cracking it; but he paid with his own visor, which got hit again and was already starting to malfunction. He could feel blood running down his side from the deep cuts on his arm. He did a double take; his chest was all red, too. No use pretending he was going to come out of this, then. 

The fight ended pathetically, exactly in the way which he'd never tell anyone about. Almost like Reaper knew and was purposely trying to humiliate him, but that was impossible. 

No, he'd just - coincidentally - punched him in the face and pushed him to his knees. Then knocked him out with the kick of a heavy army boot.

\--

76 woke up gasping for breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i don't really pay much attention to anything. but i do read all the comments! so thank you for your kind words, and your encouragement. once again, sorry my updates are short - this will most likely be re-formatted sometime, it's just that uhhhhhhhh yeah time  
> 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gabe no

Things should have sorted themselves out by now.

But, of course, it was not so easy—and Angela knew better than to rely on luck. She gathered the parts of the broken visor and got to work fixing it, though the thing would not stop flickering no matter how much insulating tape she put around the showing cables. It was all she could do, at least with the tools available. When she was satisfied with the results, she lay down on the sofa and dozed off with a blanket draped over her shoulders.

Her nap must have turned into a deep sleep at some point, because when she woke up, it was morning. For a few long seconds, she had trouble remembering just why she was on the sofa when there was a perfectly good bed a couple metres away—and then it came flooding back.

And then it came flooding back out, because the bedroom door was open, and the bed – empty.

Puzzled, Mercy scanned the apartment for any sign of Jack’s presence, some sort of evidence that the whole event hadn’t been some dream, caused by the idea that had bloomed in her mind in the canyon; but soon enough, her gaze fell upon a phone. A phone that was distinctly not standard issue, because there was a wire on the back, along with a small box. She moved it in her fingers, brow furrowed—a press on the menu button revealed a very short contact list, consisting of exactly one number. When she pressed down on it, it became highlighted, and a voice blared from the device in Spanish; Mercy almost dropped it, but from what she could understand, she’d made a call.

She placed the phone to her ear.

“Doc?” the voice on the other end was clearly Jack’s, “I left you the phone so we could keep in touch. It’s secure, but don’t test your luck.”

“Oh, thanks. Where are you?” she rubbed the remainder of sleep from her eyes, “why did you leave?”

“I found a hideout. I also put the used batteries in your camera, so you should give your superior a call. I have to go.”

“Jack!” Angela put the phone to her other ear, “Wait. We haven’t figured out... I—Of course I won’t tell them anything, but—don’t just leave.”

There was a long pause on the other end.

“It’s dangerous for both of us to stay together.”

“But Talon is clearly after you. They’re all over London! And your visor…”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure it out. Just… go back to your work, Angela.”

Oh, she hated that this conversation wasn’t happening face-to-face. Everything was going too fast and she did not like it, she did not like the camera in her hallway or this oddly aloof version of Jack that just didn’t trust her the way he used to. So unnerving. If he couldn’t trust her, could she still trust him?

Too late. He’d already hung up.

Well this was just getting all too familiar. The whole who-trusts-whom banter had been the first sign Overwatch was falling. Was this what her life was going to be now? Every bond she’d ever had breaking one by one, again and again?

Maybe this was for the best. With him gone once again, the crushing guilt of what she’d done to Gabriel was a little less present in her mind. If Jack knew, would he ever forgive her? She’d been one of the lucky few who’d been let in on the big secret, the one everyone had suspected to end in a scandal, but which had actually ended in a massive explosion and the obliteration of Overwatch, instead.

Oh, it’d be soul-crushing. Mercy buried her face in her hands.

And there remained the issue of Lena now lying for her. She’d given Tracer nothing, though with Mercy’s current situation she doubted the woman would question it; after all, Angela was subject to house arrest.

Her phone—her bugged phone, that is—vibrated and Mercy picked up immediately. She was instructed to check the red light on the camera. Indeed, shockingly, it was off. She passed that information on and was told that soon, someone would be arriving to check it out.

Her next call was to Yang, in hopes of reaching the man before his work day began. Did it ever really end, though? Still, he picked up surprisingly fast.

“Yes,” he grumbled, “I heard about the camera issue. I was also sent the footage. You must have returned home after it died.”

“I guess I did,” she sighed softly, “to tell you the truth, sir, I’m very uncomfortable with this camera being here.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Doctor Ziegler, but it is necessary.”

Time to rattle the cage a little.

“Have I not proven my loyalty many times over?” she asked, voice clear, “General, I appreciate what you have done for me, but I believe that treating me like a prisoner is hindering my research.”

He paused.

“I will think on it, Doctor Ziegler. For now, will you please come to my office at noon? We are ready to question you regarding the vigilante.”

Oh, dear. What to do—if she gave them something useful on Jack, they’d treat her favourably and maybe get rid of the camera, and then she’d actually be able to help Jack. He’d have a proper place to stay, and access to medical care.

But on the other hand, the prospect of sharing information that he did not want shared, even for his own good, was repulsive. And who’s to say that with the camera gone, her apartment wouldn’t still be watched? She’d have to get a promise out of Yang. She’d have to make him trust her.

Secret agent Angela Ziegler. Really, a title to behold. Who would have thought that simply being a really good doctor would make her such an asset? She’d never wanted any of this.

\--

The interrogation was thankfully not much like an interrogation at all. She was taken into Yang’s lavish office, seated on a leather sofa and made a cup of tea. The conversation was incredibly private in contrast with what “we are ready to question you” had implied; she wondered if it’d been nothing more than an intimidation tactic.

She sipped her tea, waiting for the general, and took a moment to glance around the office.

The walls were taller than normal; she would have expected something more modern, but the royal green tones of the carpet and furniture really gave the room weight. A weird bust of Churchill in the corner was just the cherry on top. This man wanted to be taken seriously, but Mercy hadn’t taken anyone seriously in years.

“So I take it you had a moment of heroism on the battlefield,” General Yang said slowly, sitting down next to her in all his fake-private-army-general glory, “no?”

“I wouldn’t call it heroism. I suppose old habits die hard,” she replied, setting her tea down on the table and turning to face the man.

Yang looked her in the eyes, perching his chin on his knuckles. He had black hair, with lines of white extending from either temple and fading into his natural colour. She wondered if he had it dyed like that, or if his hair was just naturally majestic.

“Yes, Doctor Ziegler. So, you followed the vigilante into the canyon.”

“I did. He had taken Rashida,” Angela swallowed thickly, “I… didn’t have much of a plan, rushing in, but I hoped to get her out of there.”

“And you did, clearly. What interests me is how,” Yang raised his eyebrows, “since that man is known to have no scruples. You cannot convince me he’s an idealist who simply let you take Rashida and go.”

The moment of truth.

“You…” Mercy inhaled slowly, “you are right. He was wounded, clutching his chest. Seeing I had my blaster with me, he just ran off.”

“He has a visor. Were you able to see what it’s for?”

She blinked.

“Night vision, I believe—but maybe it’s just an elaborate way of hiding his face. He has a mask, as well.”

Yang eyed her carefully.

“Did he speak to you?”

“No. He didn’t.”

“Hm. I see. Is there something else you’d like to tell me?”

Mercy feigned an awkward smile.

“I’m afraid that’s all I have. It was dark, and I was frantic. Maybe you can find more evidence on the scene, though.”

“Very well,” Yang nodded slowly, turning away, “one more thing, Doctor Ziegler.”

She noticed him looking at the door, and it promptly swung open, as if by magic; a man appeared in it, holding a slightly elongated case. He scurried over, placed the case on the table and ran off again.

With Yang’s permission, Mercy opened the two hatches holding the case closed. To her shock, she saw her Caduceus Staff—in its folded form, short and compact—just the same as it was the day she saw it for the last time. She gasped softly, running her fingers over the smooth metal, and feeling a rush of memories overwhelm her. It was so familiar; like an extension of her arm. The phantom pain of losing it hit her with all its intensity now that they were reunited, finally. This felt right.

“Perhaps this will help with your research, Doctor Ziegler,” Yang said, each word heavy with hidden meaning, “you understand that the, erm, suit must remain under lock and key, but I believe you’ve earned access to the Caduceus Staff.”

“This could have saved so many lives in the camp,” she breathed, closing her eyes.

To her shock, she felt a warm hand close on her shoulder. When she glanced up at Yang, she saw his face had lost some of its seriousness.

“I believe in your work, Doctor Ziegler. I would like to see you replicate the things you once achieved, and go beyond.”

Alarms immediately went off in her brain. Mercy stared at him.

“You must know that there are dangers to what I used to do.”

“Danger is always a part of the equation, Doctor Ziegler. I want you to stabilise the technology and find a way to make it as effective as possible.”

“General, I… resurrection… it poses a threat that I can’t afford to ignore.”

She wanted to try. Of course she did. But there was something that she just couldn’t quite put her finger on, something about him that was off. For now, she’d have to go with it, but she wasn’t about to let her guard down.

Then, Yang smiled.

Quickly, he stood up and joined his hands behind his back. Mercy remained seated as he began pacing, excitedly, back and forth down the length of the table.

“Doctor Ziegler,” he said matter-of-factly, “perhaps I wasn’t making myself clear.”

Oh no. That phrase was never followed by something nice. She felt anxiety grip her throat, fighting to control her facial expression. The twitchiness in Yang’s movements grew with every step—until it reached its peak.

“I don’t mean resurrection,” he stopped in his tracks, and turned to her sharply, “I mean the Reaper.”

Mercy physically felt her stomach drop out of her body and hit the floor. She stared at him, wide-eyed – showing genuine emotion for the first time in years – and her heart began pounding in her chest. Beating out a frantic rhythm like a captive bird, it slammed against her ribs, a dull pain rising in her skull. She couldn’t breathe.

For a few long seconds, she lived in blissful awe of the thought that she’d misheard. But that was quickly destroyed.

“I know that you created him,” Yang said calmly, “and I know you did it by accident. However, I’m counting on your ability to do it again.”

“General Yang,” Angela began, voice shaking, “I…”

He finally sat down next to her, and his hand was on her shoulder again.

“It’s alright,” he picked up her gaze, “we must have a mutual trust if we are to keep working in this direction, Doctor Ziegler—since this is, of course, strictly confidential. I will provide you with a lab, no cameras. Nobody will monitor you. In exchange, I want to see results.”

This was all wrong. This was all wrong. She was supposed to be able to carry on with her research, not—not this—her thoughts were racing. She couldn’t say no! She had to maintain this trust, but Gott, how much did he know? Did he actually understand that the Reaper was Gabriel Reyes? It seemed like he would, but she couldn’t assume anything.

Why now? What had happened to make him ask this of her now, after she’d been allowed for so long to – albeit without her tools – keep on working as a doctor?

So many questions. So many lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> folx................ if you read this, thank you for putting up with my non existent posting schedule. and i mean that. the only thing keeping this fic alive is me getting notifications and remembering it exists; talk about a proper work ethic. in all honesty, i'm just really tired. so i can't promise you another chapter soon. please just try to enjoy it for what it is.  
> thank you so much for your comments and kudos!!


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